It's raining again this morning and I stayed in bed far too long, luxuriating in the sound of it and then luxuriating in some poetry. [Times like these I wish for everyone that they have some time in a quiet bed on a June morning to read poems.]
I had picked up John Ashbery's Three Poems for no particular reason but that it was by my bed. It occurs to me that the technique of leaving out - actually composing and then removing text, negative space left behind in the poem - is one that would be particularly well-suited to the personal history and poetic prosthesis series.
I'm off now, to dia:beacon to fight valiantly the urge to wrap my body around and into some Richard Serras.
Later, I'll meet Salman Rushdie. [Right now, you can imagine me swooning all over my office...]
Still later, I'll surround myself with roller derby girls. [Still more swooning...]
There's a part of me that longs for some modern form of Stendhal Syndrome.
